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Puddle

I'll never sell one teardrop short
its own weight.
Oh how birdsongs were
drowning out eighteen wheelers
going down the main drag.
It's as if I can hear a blade of grass kneeling to mornings,
which take me back to words drawn with chalk rocks,
upon the unevenness
of our front walk.
Dandelions shout up through cracks.
Can I grow from baby steps
and leaps off the roof
when we'd laugh away
our falls.
Puddle
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4/22/2021 9:43:58 PM # 1.0.0.560